by V. A. Stuart
The odds were, at least, more even now, he thought, although a sudden fusillade from his left warned him that the Cossacks were still attacking the men entrenched behind their barricade of rock to his right, from whom a few sporadic shots came in answer. As they had before, his mind registered, suggesting either that they were running short of ammunition or that their numbers bad been seriously depleted. Then, with a suddenness that took him completely by surprise, a series of shots—evidently fired by one or, at most, two riflemen—came from a new direction, to his right front and a high-pitched scream of pain testified to their effectiveness. A shouted order, in Russian, brought Phillip to a standstill, again searching the grey dimness and, at the same moment as he heard the sound of marching men, he glimpsed a moving shadow, dark against the skyline, coming towards him.
A party of Cossacks, he decided who, as nearly as he could judge, were making for the cliff path, presumably with the intention of outflanking Leach’s position and cutting off his retreat. He doubled back, to be met by Smithson with the information that Leach and Cochrane had started to evacuate their wounded, of whom two had already begun the descent to the beach, with the assistance of his own stretcher parties.
“Walking wounded are coming out now, sir,” the Marine Lieutenant told him. “Mr Cochrane is—”
“Form your men up,” Phillip interrupted urgently. “We’re about to be attacked ourselves on our front.” His warning was just in time and the Marines, taking what cover they could, were waiting as the first shadowy form reached the head of the path. The Cossacks came casually, not expecting to meet with any opposition and a single volley, at point-blank range, sent them reeling back in confusion, leaving several of their number—dead or wounded—behind them. A second volley, as Smithson’s Marines charged after them, put the whole party to panic-stricken flight. The solitary marksman Phillip had located to his right front again fired on the fleeing Cossacks and, attacked on two flanks, as they evidently imagined, their rout was completed.
There was no need for silence now and leaving two of Smithson’s Marines to keep watch on the path, Phillip led the rest of his party to the rear of the rocky escarpment, the men, at his behest, raising a lusty cheer as they scrambled over the rocks. As he had feared, the defenders had suffered heavy casualties, in proportion to their numbers, due mainly to the fact that their barricade had been insufficient to protect them from the heavy cannon balls the Russians had hurled at them. Miraculously only one of Leach’s fusiliers had been killed, but three others were wounded and, of Cochrane’s seamen and Marines, only four had escaped unscathed, including Cochrane himself.
“Most of the damage was done in the past half-hour,” Anthony Cochrane explained wryly. “We saw your signal from the beach and were starting to withdraw when they turned all four guns on us at devilish close range, and forced us to hang on. The Major”—he gestured to where Leach leaned against a rock, supporting himself with his single arm—“was hit by a rock splinter, which half-blinded him. But I don’t think he’s too badly hurt and he and his fellows have done a magnificent job. They—”
“They have indeed,” Phillip put in, with an anxious glance at the rapidly lightening sky. “I’ll hear the whole story when we’re back on board the Trojan but now you had better start withdrawing your party—wounded first, and as quickly as you can, Mr Cochrane. The Army surgeon should be on his way up, with, a supporting party of Marines landed by Mr Grey, and you’ll meet them before you’ve gone very far, I hope.”
“Aye, aye, sir. And you?” Cochrane hesitated. “Do you suppose the enemy will attack again?”
“It’s to be hoped not. But Smithson and his Marines will cover your withdrawal and I’ll stay with them,” Phillip answered. “There are three boats waiting near the foot of the path and, as soon as you are clear, I will signal the Trojan to close the shore. We picked up your four wounded seamen and sent them down—they should be safely in one of the boats by now.” He crossed over to Major Leach, whose orderly was assisting him to his feet. “How are you, Major?”
“Hazard?” Leach turned a bruised and swollen face to his, both eyes tightly closed. “Your arrival was, to say the least of it, most timely. Thank you for coming back for us—I’m afraid I was wrong, we should never have been able to reach Eupatoria overland. Those infernal guns of theirs and the Cossacks …” he expelled his breath in a frustrated sigh. “We were all right until they turned two of their 12-pounders on us.”
“They’ve withdrawn the whole battery now,” Phillip told him.
“Have they, by Jove? Well, I shall never know why—they had us at their mercy. Did you get the French ship off?”
“We did—largely thanks to you, sir. You made it easy for us and—”
“Don’t thank me, my dear fellow,” the Major protested. “I got half the cliff in my face soon after we established ourselves here and since then I haven’t even been able to see the gun flashes, much less use a musket. If thanks are due to anyone, they’re due to our friend Durbanville, who directed our defence with great efficiency. His shooting was worthy of the medals he told us he’d won for it, too—is that not so, Jones?” The orderly confirmed his claim. “Oh, yes, sir. He’s a fine shot, sir.”
Phillip endeavoured to hide his astonishment. He peered round, wondering where the young Guards officer was and puzzled by his absence. Cochrane and his party had gone and, in the grey light of dawn only Smithson and his Marines could be seen, muskets at the ready, standing alertly by the barricade. “Where is Durbanville?” he asked. “I can see no sign of him.”
“Up there, somewhere.” Major Leach pointed vaguely.
“He said he would have a better field of fire from some spot he had picked over to our front, from which he told me he could cover our withdrawal. He went off—oh, about twenty minutes ago, I think, with his servant and two Minié rifles. But I’ve no idea when he came back … I’m a bit dazed, I fear, and not being able to see out of either of my eyes, I honestly cannot tell you where he is. Perhaps he went down with the wounded.”
“An example you should follow yourself, sir,” Phillip advised. “I’ll look for Durbanville.” He turned to Leach’s orderly “Take the Major down to the boats, Jones, will you please? If you need any help from my people, just ask for it.”
“I misjudged young Durbanville,” Leach said, as the orderly put an arm about him. “He’s a good soldier and a braver one than I’ll ever be. Tell him that, when you find him, Hazard, there’s a good fellow. I wish I’d told him myself.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll tell him,” Phillip promised, guessing now who the solitary marksman had been. When Leach and his orderly were clear of the barricade, he ordered the agreed signal to be made to the Trojan but, as the rockets hissed skywards he saw, by their eerie light, that some of the Cossacks had reformed, evidently with the intention of launching another attack. Smithson saw them also and, without waiting for orders, yelled out to his men to open fire. They did so effectively and the lone marksman added his quota, the flashes from his rifle revealing his position.
CHAPTER SEVEN
As the Cossacks again withdrew in confusion, Smithson glanced questioningly at Phillip. “Isn’t that Captain Durbanville up there, sir, in those rocks, doing the fancy shooting?”
Phillip nodded. “Yes, I think it is. I’m going up to him now. Hold on here until you’re quite certain that the wounded have been given a fair margin of safety—say for another fifteen to twenty minutes—and then start your withdrawal.”
“Without waiting for you and Durbanville, sir?” Lieutenant Smithson sounded worried but Phillip laid a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “We’ll join you. Give me a hail when you’re ready to go.”
He made his way to Durbanville’s lonely fastness, not without difficulty, for the way up to it was steep and strewn with loose boulders. But it was, he saw, an extremely well chosen position, affording its occupant a much wider field of fire and vision than the barricade behind which Major Leach and his party h
ad taken shelter. Henry Durbanville lay in a deep crevice in the rock, his greatcoat covering the lower part of his body, a rifle in front of him ready to his hand and a second, which he had just loaded with deft speed, at his side. His servant, to whom the task of loading had previously been delegated, was lying dead a few yards from him—the victim, Phillip could only suppose, of a random musket ball, which had caught him off guard, since the crevice appeared to offer adequate protection to anyone lying inside it.
Durbanville raised a languid hand in greeting as Phillip dragged himself up the last few precipitous yards and, skirting the body of the unfortunate guardsman, slithered in beside him. “Well, Commander Hazard, good of you to come!” His greeting was cheerful. “Although there was really no need, you know. I’m not doing too badly on my own and I’ve been on my own since Leeston was hit ten minutes ago.”
“He’s dead—” Phillip began but his companion interrupted him, not turning round. “Yes, I’m afraid he is, poor chap. He was a mite too eager to spot for me and lifted his head at the wrong moment … pity, he was an excellent servant and I shall miss him. He … oh, no you don’t!” His last remark was addressed to a shadowy figure Phillip had scarcely noticed and, taking careful aim, he gently squeezed the trigger of the Minié rifle he had picked up. The shadow emitted a shrill cry of pain and Durbanville shrugged apologetically, “Oh, dear, I only winged that one, didn’t I? But better luck next time, perhaps.” He reached for the rifle at his side and laid it on the flat surface of the ledge of rock in front of him, gesturing to Phillip to possess himself of the weapon he had just fired. “If you would not mind re-loading for me, since you’re here, Commander, I can continue to keep my eye on those infernally slippery customers down there.”
Phillip complied with his request. “Slippery customers, are they?” he repeated, amused in spite of himself.
“Yes, indeed,” Durbanville told him gravely. “They keep trying to work their way round to the rear of Major Leach’s position in the hope of cutting off his retreat to the cliff path. But the light is improving. In another ten minutes or so, I’ll show you some real shooting. I really did win a number of medals for my shooting, you know, and I am quite good at it. To be honest”—his tone was unexpectedly deprecating—“it’s about the only thing I am good at. I always was. I have excellent eyesight, even at night, you see. Er—you’re proposing to stay here for a while, I take it? Because if you are, you might as well make yourself useful with that second rifle.”
“No, I am not proposing anything of the kind,” Phillip answered, amazed by the boy’s coolness as much as by his sheer effrontery. But Henry Durbanville was only a boy, he thought—a schoolboy, playing at war with a schoolboy’s lighthearted exuberance. He explained the situation briefly and added, “I came up here to inform you that we are about to withdraw and to advise you to join us. The wounded have been evacuated and are on their way back to the beach, where I have boats waiting to take them out to the ship. Major Leach has gone with them and the Marines, who are at present holding his position, have orders to follow them almost immediately, so I think we had better make our way down at once.”
“You are perfectly free to go whenever you wish, Commander,” Durbanville said loftily. “But I shall stay here.”
“There is no point in your staying,” Phillip returned. “As I told you, we’ve towed off the French ship and the enemy have withdrawn their gun battery. The operation has been successful, thanks in no small measure to you, Major Leach informed me. He—”
“The Cossacks have not withdrawn,” the young Guards officer observed. “And there seem to be quite a number of them, do there not? Do you imagine they will simply stand by and watch you withdraw your Marines? My dear fellow, they will come after you!”
“I expect they will,” Phillip agreed. “But we ought to be able to hold them off without too much trouble. The path is narrow, the Marines will make a fighting withdrawal, and a second party is on its way up to our support.”
“I can hold them off without any trouble at all,” Henry Durbanville pointed out, with conscious pride. “In daylight, I give you my word, not a single Cossack will reach the path so long as I am here. Why risk the lives of your Marines?” He tensed and the rifle in his hands spat flame, to be followed an instant later by an unearthly shriek, as a dark figure disengaged itself from the rock face twenty yards from them and fell heavily, not to rise again. “You see?” His tone was exultant. “I could hold off a whole army, if I had to, so what are a few Cossacks?”
Phillip lost patience with him. “I cannot leave you here, Durbanville. You would be risking certain death. The Cossacks aren’t noted for their humane treatment of prisoners and in addition they—”
“I’m sorry, Commander Hazard, but I’m not coming with you. Before you go, would you mind re-loading that Minié rifle for me, like a good fellow? You understand—”
“I am giving you an order, Captain Durbanville,” Phillip put in, an edge to his voice. He ignored the proffered rifle, hearing Smithson hail him from below. “The Marines are ready to commence their withdrawal, so I must insist that you accompany me to join them immediately.”
“To my infinite regret, my dear sir, I cannot do as you wish.” Henry Durbanville spoke quietly, without bravado. “I had not meant you to know but … look and you will see that I am incapable of obeying your order.” He drew back the greatcoat which covered his legs and, in the dim light, Phillip saw that his left leg had been almost severed below the knee. “The excellent Leeston put on a tourniquet just before he got himself killed. It stopped the bleeding and, curiously enough, I feel very little pain.”
“But—” Phillip stared at him with new respect. “When did this happen?”
“Oh, I don’t know, I’ve lost count of time. About thirty minutes ago, as far as I can recollect. It was a round shot from one of their infernal twelve-pounders and the irony of it is that it was never intended for me. Their gunnery is wildly inaccurate and this was a ricochet, if you please!” The young Guards officer shrugged helplessly. “The one thing I did not bargain for, when I selected this position. But, as I trust I have proved to your satisfaction, sir, I cannot obey your order. I can’t walk.”
“I can carry you, Durbanville,” Phillip assured him. “And we’ll send for a stretcher party.” Smithson, he saw, craning forward to look, was still waiting and he called out to him to delay the retreat to the beach for a few more minutes. Turning again to the wounded boy, he urged gently, “Come on, lad—I’ll take you on my back.”
Durbanville smiled at him. “Thanks but I should bleed to death before you could carry me as far as the head of the path. Don’t you realize, my dear fellow, the rock is all that is keeping my leg in place now? I beg you—load that second rifle for me and then leave me here where, at least, I can be of some use.”
“The military surgeon is with my second party of Marines”—Phillip started to tell him but the boy shook his head, shuddering.
“For pity’s sake, Commander, don’t let any sawbones touch me! That would be more than I could endure.” His tone changed, becoming authoritative, “We’re wasting valuable time, you know—it’s almost daylight. Leave me, Commander Hazard … you have the responsibility for getting your men back to the ship. Just load the rifle for me and permit me to accept responsibility for ensuring that your rearguard makes an unmolested withdrawal. I may be rather an amateur soldier and a tyro at war but even I can see that this is quite a favourable exchange—my life for yours and that of—how many trained Marines? Ten—twelve—any one worth more than I am, if you’re honest, surely? In any event, how many poor wretches survive the amputation of a leg?”
He was right, Phillip was unwillingly forced to admit.
He loaded the rifle and placed it close to Durbanville’s side and then laid a hand on his shoulder.
“I had a message for you, from Major Leach,” he said. “He asked me to tell you that he misjudged you and to add that, in his view, you were a good soldier
and—in his words—‘a braver one than I’ll ever be.’ I should like to associate myself with that message, Captain Durbanville and to wish you luck. As to the Cossacks—”
Durbanville did not let him complete the warning he was about to utter. “Don’t worry, Commander—I shall keep the last shot for myself. And permit me to wish you Godspeed.”
It had been a curiously moving yet melodramatic scene, Phillip reflected, conscious of a tightness about his throat as he slithered awkwardly down to rejoin Smithson. But then, Henry Durbanville was a curiously melodramatic young man, who had been acting a variety of parts ever since he had boarded the Trojan, apparently intent on dramatizing everything he did. By an odd quirk of Fate, the final act had afforded him an opportunity to play the heroic role in which, no doubt, he had always seen himself—and he had played it with admirable courage and coolness, as well as a certain cynical enjoyment.
It went very much against the grain to leave him there, alone in his small stronghold but Phillip sighed. The boy had been right, of course—he had his own responsibilities, there was nothing else he could do but leave him there. Although perhaps, when he had seen the last boat safely away from the beach, he could return, if only to salve his own conscience.
